


Deus Dedit

by Devilc



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: First Time, Ireland, M/M, Medieval History, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28140096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: When they move to retrieve the reliquary and rescue brother Ciarán from the Ua Mordha, the stone works no second miracle in the woods -- not that it ever worked a first, no matter what Brother Geraldus claims.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Deus Dedit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squishy_TRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy_TRex/gifts).



> The prompt was :
> 
> And I thought, "Well, [that's a bold strategy, Cotton, let's see if it pays off for them](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9HVejEB5uVk)"
> 
> Written as an act to bring good cheer into a world that desperately needs some.
> 
> Thanks to RS for her beta work.

_Deus Dedit -- God Given_

* * *

When they move to retrieve the reliquary and rescue Brother Ciarán from the Ua Mordha, the stone works no second miracle in the woods -- not that it ever worked a first, no matter what Brother Geraldus claims.

Instead, he takes a blow to the head that leaves him reeling and unable to find his feet, try as he might. They tie him to a tree with Diarmuid (eye rapidly blackening) next to him. The other brothers are tied across the camp, well beyond the other side of the fire from them.

All is revealed when the younger DeMerville arrives, and it sickens him to the bone. Through the throbbing in his head, he silently prays for his sins to be shriven and to be granted the mercy of a swift death.

God, as is his prerogative, has other plans. DeMerville crouches before him and says in French, "It seems the stone and the reliquary aren't the only treasures that have fallen into our hands. One of my men remembered you. Had quite a lot to say, actually. Alas," He sighs dramatically, "I shall not be getting your ransom. The Ua Mordha is upset about the losses you have inflicted against him. 'Blood price' he calls it."

He groans and rolls his eyes in response to DeMerville's words. His father will not be quite so generous with his coin as these savages would like to think. 

DeMerville leaves with the relic, and without Brother Geraldus, who calls after him, likewise in French, disbelief at DeMerville's betrayal ringing through his words. He dies first, when the Ua Mordha set about their grim work. It is not a clean death; it starts with a stroke across the abdomen to disembowel. When they finally run him through the neck, his expression is shocked, as if he still cannot believe what has happened to him.

Meanwhile Diarmuid has joined Brothers Cathal and Ciarán in the Pater Noster. 

Mercifully, the Ua Mordha make Cathal's and Ciarán's deaths quick, and it is just Diarmuid left praying next to him, tears streaming down his face, voice shaking, but he does not miss a word. The bloody blade rises to strike the blow, and the words, thick and rusty, burst from his mouth, "If you spare him, my father will ransom him too, and I will be an obedient hostage."

"And why would your father ransom some no-name monkling from a godforsaken pile of rocks?" The Ua Mordha hisses in reply.

With a calmness that belies his racing heart, he says, "Because I am Lord de Coupland of the _Oileáin Árann_ , and he is my squire."

It's a risky ploy, but it's all he has at this moment. He prays with all his heart that the Lord will work a miracle and soften the hearts of these two-legged wolves.

After discussion amongst themselves, they untie him and Diarmuid, gag them, and march them without rest until just before sunset, when they reach a small village deep in the hills. He is so thirsty he would beg for water were his mouth free. Diarmuid doesn't look much better, especially with his eye near swollen shut.

The Ua Mordha has them strip at sword point in front of a wattle and daub byre. Thankfully he removes their gags and unties their hands before shoving them in and closing the door. Miracle of miracles, it is filled with clean straw, and by the last light that seeps in through the cracks in the door, he can make out a manger of fresh oats and a trough of water that smells new and clean. He and Diarmuid are so thirsty they dive right in and drink, and as soon as his belly is full to bursting with water, he can hear an argument outside, as well as a lowing cow.

The byre's owner, a woman, it seems, had it newly built for her best cow, due soon, to calve in.

Midway through the goings on, Diarmuid whispers to him, "I need to pee."

He looks around in the near darkness and decides on a spot opposite the water trough. He rakes away the straw with his bare hands and gestures. Inwardly, he sighs. He's not looking forward to the inevitable stench of a shit, but he endured worse in the Holy Land.

Diarmuid huddles next to him when he's done. "Is it true then," he speaks softly, "Are you really a lord?"

He nods his head and realizes that Diarmuid probably cannot see his answer. "Yes," he hisses, inviting no further conversation with his tone. He wants to laugh. He's not really much of a lord. Just a 4th son and landed knight from a minor house with three small lumps of earth and rock in the Irish Sea as his domain, not nearly so grand as the "title" that comes with them. He wants to say that he did better and more important things silently mucking out a pig sty and milking the goats at Kilmanan than he ever did as a knight. But that would mean speaking, which he does not mean to do unless needs must.

He rises, pisses, gropes his way to the manger and shoves a handful of oats into his mouth, and takes another for Diarmuid and himself, before rejoining him in the straw. The argument outside has trailed off, though he can still hear the cow lowing her discontent.

The night is very cold and very long and wordlessly he and Diarmuid huddle in the straw next to the manger, choking down a few mouthfuls of oats that do little to quiet their rumbling bellies and just dry their mouths out, but drinking would mean getting up out of the warm straw and going to the trough. He eventually takes Diarmuid, teeth chattering, into his arms and piles the straw over them, desperate for its meagre warmth

A part of him is grateful for the cold. He put himself into that coracle those many years ago for the sin of loving men, and under other circumstances, having sweet Diarmuid pressed so closely to him would be torment, but tonight, tired, cold, and wrung out as he is, nothing stirs in his loins as Diarmuid, shivering, tucks into him, and softly prays.

They sleep in fits and starts, never snatching more than an hour, and when sunlight starts to leak in at the door's edges, Diarmuid murmurs, "Would we had had the cow in here with us, I would not have minded her messing the straw, as she would have given us some warmth at least to make it even."

 _We are not so poor as that,_ he's tempted to joke.

The door bursts open, and they blink against the light as a middle aged sour-faced woman enters, looks them up and down and says, "I do not care what my fool of a brother says. I am not keeping you naked in my cow byre, not when my best cow needs it. Up, you."

A younger woman with frizzy dark hair and a face as pale as whey drives the cow in, a fine, ruddy coated beast, heavily pregnant, who makes straight for the grain, causing him and Diarmuid to scramble out of the way.

He laughs inside thinking that the cow is probably worth more than his ransom.

~oo(0)oo~

The middle aged woman's name is Dorcas. Her house is smaller than expected, given her standing in the clan, but it's well kept, and the fire in the middle fills it with warmth and fragrant peaty smoke.

Her husband was one of the men slain on the road in the forest. She grieves him not. He and Diarmuid now wear some of his clothes because the Ua Mordha had theirs burned. Not a full set of clothes, mind. She's too smart for that. Diarmuid gets a _léine_ that covers him almost to his knees and a loincloth. He gets a pair of short trews and a sheepskin _brat_ over his shoulder. Enough clothing to keep off the worst of the cool air, but nothing they could run away in. He and Diarmuid also wear rawhide manacles on their wrists, and a set of shackles on their ankles made of tough hide joined to a stout piece of wood between.

If that wasn't enough, Dorcas has two dogs, large _Cú Faoil_ who are fiercely protective of her and would rend him limb from limb if he made a move. He wonders if they protected her from her late husband.

He looks her in the eye and says, "Goodwife, I have given your brother my word, and now I shall give it you. You shall have no mischief from us."

She sets two bowls of brose in front of them in reply and piffs an errant lock of white streaked hair away from her face as they gulp it down. "For your sakes, I hope the ransom comes, and soon. 'Tis why I'm not keeping you in the byre. 'Twill go better when they see you fed, and not starved from cold and hunger." She shakes her head. "I have no love for you Normans, but hate and the devil rule my brother's heart."

Diarmuid speaks softly, "Thank you for risking --"

"Bah!" Dorcas cuts him off. "If he comes at me, he'll get a good clithering." She shakes the wooden spoon she uses to stir the pot nestled in the coals. "And then I'll set the dogs on him."

~oo(0)oo~

The first night inside brings less temptation. Dorcas ties them to different roof beams on opposite sides of the fire. Her two serving women also bed down near the fire, each armed with a sturdy cudgel. The dogs curl up just outside of Dorcas's bed nook.

It's a cool and drafty night with no proper cloak or blanket, but it's nowhere near the misery of that first night in the byre.

Morning brings oat cakes and pease pottage with clabbered milk to season it, and Diarmuid asks if there is anything needs doing. 

Three sets of female eyes glare at him.

"You'll be getting no knife nor mallet from me," Dorcas says testily.

Diarmuid blinks, caught off guard at her scowl and tone. "I am not asking for one, goodwife," he replies carefully. "It's just … we came from a monastery and are not used to idleness."

"We?" Dorcas snorts, "a lord doing work?"

"Yes!" Diarmuid exclaims, "He came to us as a penitent, with a vow of silence. I did not know he was a lord, not until --" His words cut off and his eyes grow cloudy with the memories of recent events.

"It is true," he says quietly. "I was a penitent, and would welcome the work."

Dorcas shakes her head, puzzled. "But my brother said he was your squire." 

"He is my squire _now._ " He gives Dorcas a look he hopes will discourage further questions.

After a moment, the other servant, a toad-faced woman with a scar on her cheek and rusty hair asks, "Can you plait straw?"

"Make rushlights?" Asks the whey-faced one.

"We can," replies Diarmuid, "and make butter, or cheese, clabber milk, prepare hides, chink walls, and muck a sty."

~oo(0)oo~

"It is good to work," Diarmuid says as he works on peeling rushes so they can make rushlights and watchlights while the rusty-haired woman melts and strains mutton fat for them to soak the prepared rushes in.

He nods in response as he removes a long strip of rind from the pith.

"Will you be speaking more now?" Diarmuid asks.

He sighs. "Only when I must." _You talk enough for both of us,_ he thinks, _And unlike me, you are not a better person for keeping silent._

"Will you tell me your name?" Diarmuid asks.

He shakes his head. "You know who I am. Call me as you have always called me."

Diarmuid laughs. "It will be strange for a squire to call his lord 'my friend'."

He chortles in response.

A moment or two later, Diarmuid speaks up, saying, "Shall I tell a tale to help us pass the time?" He does not wait for the women to answer before launching into the story of Jonah and the whale.

He closes his eyes, breathes in and out, savoring the nearness of Diarmuid, the sound of his voice, and his heart aches the sweetest ache of love for this young man who simply cannot contain his light beneath a bushel.

When Diarmuid finishes, the pale faced servant asks if he knows any tales of old Irish heroes, like tales of Queen Medb.

~oo(0)oo~

A few days later, Diarmuid has a nightmare that leaves him shouting fit to rouse the dogs, who start barking, and that wakes the whole house.

Dorcas is so angry at the commotion, he can tell she's of half a mind to send Diarmuid out to the cow byre. 

He clears his throat to get her attention and says, "Goodwife, let him sleep by my side and there will be no more undue outbursts like this." She glares at him and opens her mouth to speak, but he cuts her off, "Tie him to the post next to me. Were we to escape, we would have done so by now."

The look of relief and gratitude in Diarmuid's face as he's bound to the same pole simultaneously breaks and warms his heart.

In the flickering light Diarmuid settles into him as much as his bonds will allow, and says, "I was dreaming about --" his voice cuts off with a muffled gasp of anguish, a stifled howl of grief.

"I know, I know," he whispers back in his softest voice. "Come, let us pray for them. 'In to your hands, o Lord …'."

~oo(0)oo~

A week passes with no more violent nightmares, though Diarmuid sleeps quite restlessly more than once. Both he and Diarmuid are glad for the added warmth of each other's bodies, though it is a delicious agony to have Diarmuid so near to him, even if they largely sleep back to back, as that is what their bonds allow.

Diarmuid's eye loses the last sign of bruising and still there is no sign of the Ua Mordha. 

Dorcas's prize cow drops her calves on a cold and rainy night. He and Diarmuid briskly rub at the tiny creatures with handfuls of straw to help dry and warm them. It is a surprisingly hard birth for the cow, and it takes her some time and urging to find her feet and suckle her two calves. They are both female, much to Dorcas's delight. She and the rest of the village might hold each other at arm's length much of the time, but they do like her cheese and butter.

They're exhausted and soaked through by the time they get back to the house, and by the dim light of the fire he can see Dorcas walk straight to her bed, strip off her dripping cloak, flop in, and pull the blankets over her head. The two serving women stir beneath their blankets but do not wake. He gives a silent prayer of thanks that they did not bank the fire. He throws a few more pieces of kindling and a large clod of peat on the fire for some extra heat, as he and Diarmuid have no option but to lie down in their drenched clothing, and even exhausted as he is, he savors the feel of Diarmuid spooned warmly against him.

The Ua Mordha, whose name they discover is Murchadh, returns, slipping into Dorcas's house just as the sun rises. He rants and threatens at the sight of both of them, untied and clothed, but Dorcas calmly folds her arms beneath her ample bosom and says nothing except, "And will you have the responsibility of keeping them alive, then, brother? They're nothing to you dead." He takes a step towards her, but two deep growls give him pause.

"I'll share none of it with you, you hag," Murchadh snarls, "You're lucky I'm no kinslayer."

Dorcas laughs as he stalks off. When he and his entourage are out of sight she says to no-one in particular, "It could be a king's ransom and by Brigid's Day he would have nothing lasting to show for it, neither cattle nor trade goods. He will fritter it away on his 'retainers' as he calls them. Lickspittles say I."

~oo(0)oo~

Shortly before dawn, Diarmuid stiffens against him and cries out, but it is not a sound of terror. He moves to shake Diarmuid, but he is already awake, and the unbridled lust he sees in Diarmuid's eyes sears into him. A moment later, Diarmuid's cheeks pinken and he bolts up out of the door and into the chilly mist. He returns a few minutes later, his soaking wet loincloth in hand.

Wordlessly he drives a few sticks of kindling into the edges of the firepit and helps Diarmuid hang the scrap of linen over the coals to help it dry swiftly.

"I'm sorry," Diarmuid whispers, unable to meet his gaze as he sits down next to the fire.

He shakes his head. "Don't be."

~oo(0)oo~

Diarmuid will not meet his eyes for the rest of the day which is a problem as Dorcas has set them to re-daubing the walls of the granary, and, after that, checking the thatch on the roof to see if it will need work against the coming winter.

Finally, he confronts Diarmuid in the cow byre as they set about mucking out the foul straw and bringing in the fresh. Another of Dorcas's cows is set to calve, and Dorcas will be separating her from the herd tonight.

"You must think me unnatural, warped and twisted, " Diarmuid whispers brokenly. "I didn't mean to, it's just --"

"I'm twisted the same way, too," he cuts in.

Diarmuid stares at him, mouth agape, for once at a loss for words.

Pushing all fear aside, he closes the distance between them and takes Diarmuid in his arms, hugging him tightly until Diarmuid's shaky breaths calm. Kissing the precious dark curls atop Diarmuid's head, he wants to tell Diarmuid the story of how he came to be in that boat, how he spent years hating himself, how he ran off on Crusade in an effort to outrun himself, how, when that didn't work, he had himself put in that boat and cast off. He resolved to live with his sin, to serve the monks at the harshest and most remote monastery he could find, and perhaps that would grant him entrance into Heaven. But, as the years passed and Diarmuid grew from a slip of a boy and into manhood, he had fallen in love with him. As he went about his devotions, he wondered how could loving such a pure, kind, and thoughtful person be a sin? And then one day as the Abbot read out the verses from the bible and spoke of the love between David and Jonathan, it dawned on him that perhaps God had guided him to this monastery to give him Diarmuid when the time was right and he had become a man worthy of such companionship.

"God gave you to me," he whispers into that riot of curls. "God gave you to me." _And I will never let any take you from me, so long as I draw breath._

~oo(0)oo~

A messenger, a herald to be exact, arrives with several guards at the next full moon. In the intervening weeks, it's been everything he and Diarmuid can do to keep their hands off each other, contenting themselves with a few quick embraces, and chaste kisses on hand or cheek when they have a moment alone. They both want it, but they both know they dare not risk it. Not here. Not now.

It is not his father who has come, but his second oldest brother, Ranulf. The herald has a parchment with three questions on it that only he would know the answers to.

It feels strange to take the proffered quill in hand and dip it in the ink after so many years. He laughs inside as he thinks of how Brother Owain would have sighed over such ungainly penmanship. He blows gently on the parchment and hands it back to the herald, a handsome dark haired man, whom he does not recognize. He wonders if Bardulf, his father's previous herald died, or is simply too infirm to make long journeys these days.

All at once his mind floods with questions and wonderings about what has happened in his absence. He is both grateful and not entirely surprised that it is Ranulf who has come. Ranulf is the only one of his brothers who always made time for him. Morcar, the heir, was always so busy currying favor with their father, and, beyond that, he focused endlessly on plans to expand the family wealth and power, heedless of those trampled underfoot. Jean, the third son, had been destined for the church since he could remember. He was also spiteful and a bully. One of his earliest memories involves running to Ranulf for help against Jean. It was Ranulf who gave him his first (wooden) sword and lessons in how to use it. And, when, at the age of 5, he used that same wooden blade to bring the 12 year old Jean to his knees, their father laughed, and declared that perhaps his youngest should not go to the church after all. He became Ranulf's page that day, and later his squire. It was Ranulf who knighted him.

It was also Ranulf who pushed their father to give him the islands as his fiefdom, making him a landed knight. How else would he attract a worthy bride?

He went on Crusade as much to escape a betrothal as anything else.

And now here is Ranulf, come to take him back to the life he hadn't wanted then, and is presently indifferent to at best.

"May we ask for some proper clothing?" he says to Dorcas. "Perhaps you would be glad to be rid of _his_ things?"

Dorcas sighs heavily. "I have bitterness in me against the Normans and those among us so eager to take on their ways, but it has been good having a real man in the house, two, in fact." She shakes her head and continues, "I do not miss the bellowing ale-belly he became, though I did love the lad he once was." She opens a chest and begins drawing out clothing, plain, and worn, but well made for all that, and clean.

"I'll see you paid, goodwife," he replies.

She tisks and says, "No, it will be payment enough to have it out of my house. You will take all the bad memories away, and leave me only the good -- like this chest he made when we were both happy."

A pity it is, he thinks, that she does not lead these people. Oh, the village mostly leaves her alone and stays away due to her sharp tongue, but with her and not Murchadh, at the helm, sharp tongue or no, these people might know a measure of peace, and even some measure of prosperity.

~oo(0)oo~

Clothed (but barefoot, for no shoes in the house fit them, and if any in the village have their old shoes, they are not saying) they are led by Murchadh and his men to a broad meadow, cut through by a delightfully musical brook. 

Across the brook, on the far side of the field, he can see the family banner and Ranulf's personal standard flapping in the gentle breeze. It looks as if Ranulf has at least 50 knights and men at arms with him. Not so many men that they cannot make a good day's march, but enough that reavers and overly ambitious lords looking for a quick ransom will hesitate to attack.

The exchange happens smoothly, with the pouch of coin handed over more sizable than he expected. If the family bargained his ransom down, it was not by much, or did Ranulf make up the difference?

And then he is in Ranulf's bear hug. He has barely time to note the additional silver threading through Ranulf's hair and beard, before he and Diarmuid are on horseback with Ranulf setting a brisk, almost punishing pace, to see them quickly away from the Ua Mordha.

Diarmuid looks at him, lost, for he has never ridden anything beyond the monastery's donkey, and then for only a few minutes at a time. Now he's on a much more spirited rouncey and clearly has little idea of what to do. He reaches over and seizes the reins just below the bit, pulling it in on a tight lead and away they go, surrounded by soldiers, Diarmuid bouncing like a sack of meal in the saddle, clinging to the pommel for dear life.

 _He's going to be sore come nightfall,_ he thinks; _then again, so am I_.

~oo(0)oo~

With a groan he climbs out of the saddle when they reach the fortress at _Ceatharlach_ , and Diarmuid lands with a small cry, his legs buckling slightly at the knee. Ranulf barely stops for pleasantries as he takes them to the suite of rooms Lord Marshall's Seneschal has generously put them in. Diarmuid goggles, wide eyed at the size of the fortress and the market town at its base. "I had no idea anything could be so big!"

One of the stewards laughs, not unkindly, and says, "His Lordship is planning something bigger and even stronger to replace it. He hopes to break ground next year. A shame he is not here to host you, for he would doubtless love to know more of the brigands you encountered, but he and his lady wife left but a week ago for another of their castles."

Ranulf calls for three baths as soon as they reach his room and waits until the servants are gone and they are are all soaking in steaming tubs of lavender scented water -- Diarmuid stares at it awkwardly before climbing in, and it dawns on him then that Diarmuid has only ever bathed in a basin, the sea, or the waters of a brook -- before the talking starts.

They talk until his voice is little more than a hoarse croak. Easily done, as he is newly returned to speaking, and has only spoken when needful over the last several weeks. Diarmuid fills in what he can, but by the end of it, Ranulf is still shaken and no closer to understanding why he had his sword and armor sent home as if he had died.

"But once again, I say _why_ , brother?!" he asks as he steps from the tub and starts drying himself.

He can only shake his head. _I cannot begin to explain, and you would never understand or accept._ "It is what God willed of me," he whispers in reply. "I can say no more than that."

Ranulf throws up his hands, spins in exasperation, and says to Diarmuid, "It was plain as soon as you sat that horse you were no squire. But my brother clearly thinks highly of you, so I will give you a choice. I can see you sent back to Kilmanan, or we can take you to _Beannchor_ \--" Diarmuid's eyes widen at the mention "it is near to our lands. Or, you can stay in service to my brother."

Without hesitation Diarmuid replies, "I will stay with your brother, Lord Ranulf. I do not think that God means me for the church any longer. I see a new path before me." A moment later he adds, "But I would like to see _Beannchor_. Is it as grand and holy as they say?"

Ranulf laughs warmly. "It is a very fine city, and full of the Lord's wonders, young Diarmuid."

~oo(0)oo~

Once out of the tubs (and he is shocked to see the amount of filth in the water) and in clean clothes, it will soon be time for dinner. He smiles as he sees Diarmuid stroking the cloth of the tunic and surcoat loaned to him. 

"It is so fine, " he murmurs to him, wonderingly.

"It is so fine, Sir," Ranulf corrects him. "What?" he asks in reply to the two sets of gazes directed at him. "If you say he is your man, he'd best start learning how to be your man." To Diarmuid he says, " _Do you speak French?_ " At the blank look he continues, "We'll have to work on that, too. What about letters? Do you know them?"

" _Ego potest legere et scribere_ ," Diarmuid responds without missing a beat. Followed a moment later by, "But only in Latin."

Ranulf smiles. "It's a start. Now, listen closely, I need to give you quick lessons about proper manners at dinner, and remind my savage of a brother, who has doubtless forgotten them."

~oo(0)oo~

Ranulf gives them two days of rest. In no small part because he needs to equip them for the journey: new boots, cloaks, surcoats, shirts, breeches, small clothes. Two of everything.

Before they leave, he asks Ranulf for some parchment and a quill and carefully composes two letters. The first, to the Abbot, explains that all died except for himself and Diarmuid, and that the stone is now in the hands of King John. He will have masses said for the brothers killed on the road. The second, to the Holy Father in Rome, explains that the stone was taken from them on the orders of Lord DeMerville and will be given to King John, and that Brother Geraldus died at the hands of brigands in the service of the DeMervilles.

In neither missive does he tell the full, unfettered, and awful truth. What good would it serve? He does not want to say anything that could bring troubles down on Kilmanan, but the DeMervilles are already his enemies. Someday he will tell Ranulf the truth of the journey and of the role of the DeMervilles in his capture, but only when the time is right.

As they set out on the road home, in place of the spirited rouncey that Diarmuid rode in on, there stands a smaller and much more placid Irish hobby. Diarmuid smiles in relief as he mounts, and the sweet little beast does nothing more than snort softly.

As they stop to rest the horses and have a quick midday meal of bread and cheese, he asks Ranulf, "How much will I owe you when this is over?"

Ranulf idly waves his hand. "You've paid for it all. I have been collecting the rents from your lands all these years and holding them just in case."

He blinks, taken aback.

Ranulf shrugs. "A pilgrim on his way to _Beannchor_ arrived with your sword, shield, and armor, and horses, but no letter. The man said that you bid him take them to us when he last saw you in Waterford."

He rolls his eyes. "I couldn't very well write you a letter of my death in my own hand. You know it too well. I told him to say that I had died."

"Well," Ranulf continues, a twinkle in his eye, "by the grace of God, you found an honest man --"

"Too honest it seems," he spits the words and tears into his bread.

Ranulf chews and swallows his own bread before continuing, "Since you were not dead, at least not that we knew, I held the money hoping that one day God would return you to us." He smiles as he says, "Be glad that I convinced father to give me the management of your estate, and not Morcar, for that is how the bulk of your ransom got paid. Father and Morcar sent but half of what was asked."

He takes a bite of cheese before saying, "So, how poor am I exactly?"

Ranulf laughs. "We will go over the ledgers when we arrive, but … indeed you are somewhat lean in the purse at the moment." He pauses then continues, "Do not plan for an overly lavish wardrobe, or extended feasting, or a large stable. But you have enough to see you comfortably through until the next quarter's rents arrive."

~oo(0)oo~

Ranulf pushes them hard every day. They traveled fairly light by the standards of such things to make speed. There are no tents or pavilions and only 2 mule drawn carts for food and other supplies. They must make a lord's hold or a town by nightfall, or else take their chances with a night in the open. Shared rooms in inns or the holds of country knights mean no hope for privacy, or more than the briefest moments alone with Diarmuid. But there is plenty of time for talk. Or rather, to listen to Diarmuid talk.

"I had no idea there was so much land out of sight of the sea," Diarmuid says as they top a small rise that shows the Irish sea in the distance. "It was strange, the first few nights away --" he swallows hard, "away from Kilmanan, not hearing the song of the waves as I drifted off to sleep. Will we be able to hear it from --" he pauses, fishing for a word.

"My keep?" he offers.

"Yes, your keep."

"We will be surrounded by the sea on all sides. There will be no escaping it." Some day he must talk to Diarmuid of his time in Europe and the Holy Land. One could go for months without seeing the sea, and there were people who lived so far inland they would likely never see it, this source of the salted cod on their tables.

"I will look forward to walking in the surf again. To picking razor clams, not so much."

There is so much Diarmuid does not understand about the ways in which his life is about to change from anything he knew or dreamt of. "We will still eat them," he says, "but you will only pick them if you want to."

"What of dulse?"

He smiles in memory. The cook in his father's castle added dulse to nearly every soup and stew, and even to some oatcakes, which they would spread with rich sweet butter as a counter to the earthy saltiness of the dulse. "We will eat all the gifts of the sea at my table. But not so much dulse as at Kilmanan, it will be a spice, not a mainstay."

"And will you teach me how to fight?" Diarmuid's eyes shine at the idea.

He does not want to. Diarmuid, with his slight frame and late start is unlikely to ever earn his spurs, but the reality is, if he does not start training Diarmuid, he will have to find some other role for him, one where his continued presence above stairs will be much harder to explain. Also, there is the fact that the Norsemen still send raiders to harry the land from time to time.

"Yes," replies, switching to French, "and how to comport yourself and even a little dance, as well."

He then repeats it word for word with Irish and has Diarmuid repeat it all back, slowly at first, and then 3 more times with increasing confidence. After he finishes the final repetition, Diarmuid asks, "You can dance?"

He shakes his head at the memories. "It is no harder than learning how to fight. How to move one's body in battle can be like a dance at times."

"He's too modest," Ranulf calls over to them, "He had all the maids after him with his dancing and graceful ways."

"A time now past," he replies firmly. To Diarmuid he says, "Dancing is expected of men like the one you will become." And then he repeats it in French and smiles inside at how rapidly and eagerly Diarmuid takes to the tongue.

~oo(0)oo~

The homecoming is more and less what he expected, a through and through mix of sweet and bitter. A messenger is dispatched over to his keep for the servants there to put all in order for his arrival in a day or two, almost as soon as he steps through the gates of his father's castle.

His father is the same as he ever has been, a man whose affections are conditional. He is both angry at him (which, to be fair he has the right to be, they all have the right to be) and proud of him for having come back from Crusade, even if it was to run away into the arms of the church. "Perhaps I should've given you over to them as a child."

He has nothing to say to that.

Morcar has a quiet, mousy wife, Amalia, easily 20 years his junior, doubtless married for her dowry and family connections. She is big with child, their first. She seems pleasant enough, but he has little doubt that she arranges her life to spend as little time with Morcar as possible.

Morcar is greying, balding, and has put on weight in his middle age. His personality has not improved by so much as a barleycorn. He laughs inside thinking of how desperate Morcar is to improve their family, to make it one of the first families in King John's Irish realm, but the more Morcar speaks, the more he sees that will never happen. He is as graceful and subtle as a rutting ox and about as smart.

Ranulf's three children, of whom he has heard much, run to meet their father as soon as he hands the reins of his courser to a groom. His wife, Aoibhinn, comes from the Ui Néill of the North. Her cheeks dimple when she smiles, which is early and often, and her dark eyes sparkle for Ranulf. Ranulf has also spoken much of her, and he is happy that his brother found such a woman for his wife. Their three boys, ranging in age from 10 to 4 are very excited to meet their new uncle, and he notices that they speak in Irish as much as, if not more than, French.

A steward eventually takes them to the room he had as a child. It smells a little stale. Though it has been cleaned and aired, it is clearly not much used. Servants bring their meager possessions as well as a large basin and two steaming pitchers of faintly rose scented water so they can freshen up. 

"You father wishes a private audience with you after you've washed."

He moves towards the door. His father is never a man to keep waiting.

"My lord," the steward says with a kind smile, "give him time to climb the stairs to his solar." He gestures to the basin and pitchers.

~oo(0)oo~

A decade of silence stands him in good stead with his father, who is not so much there to listen to anything he has to say, but to talk over his answers.

When talk turns to marriage, he puts his foot down. "No." His father turns an alarming shade of red and sputters, but he continues on, "I will marry the woman of my choosing at the time of my choosing, or not at all."

"You will marry, or I will have your lands!" His father pounds his fist on the table, upsetting a mug of ale.

He shrugs and a moment later calls his father's bluff. "I will return to Kilmanan."

His father stares at him, open-mouthed for several moments. "I can have you in irons for disobedience to your liege."

"Then do so." Staring hard into his father's eyes, he continues, "The untempered lad you knew is dead. Between my journey to the Holy Land, and a decade serving the Servants of God at Kilmanan, a much stronger and better man has taken his place. One who has little longing for the trappings of knighthood and the luxuries of position."

His father slumps in the chair and waives him away.

He returns to his room to find that Diarmuid has laid out his other set of clothes and changed into his as well. They are nothing fancy, and still rumpled a bit from their time in a saddlebag despite a good shaking, but they have the benefit of not being the clothes they rode in today.

Diarmuid's eyes catch his and ask the question.

He nods in reply. _Lord, do not let him look at me that way down in the great hall. It might set the rushes afire._

~oo(0)oo~

He wants nothing more than to wolf his dinner, take Diarmuid's hand in his, and sprint upstairs. 

For all of that, dinner turns out to be far less unpleasant than he expected. Amalia loves music, so a bard sings in both Irish and French, which reduces the need for conversation. And, when Morcar does try to engage him, it's easy enough to say, "Please, brother, it's been so long since I have heard anything but church music. Let me listen."

Diarmuid listens in rapt attention, and it occurs to him that this is the first time he has ever heard the like. His heart swells to bursting at the sight of Diarmuid so transported.

When he states his intent to leave tomorrow mid-morning, after he visits the grave of his mother, it is Amalia who unexpectedly comes to his rescue. "But Morcar," she says, voice all sweetness, "is it not one of your virtues that you are so dedicated to the overlordship of your lands? Surely, you cannot fault your brother for realizing that he has neglected his duties and should return to them as soon as possible. The sooner his people know him and his ways, the better it will be."

Before his father and Morcar can speak, both Ranulf and Aoibhinn raise their goblets and loudly salute her wisdom.

After the final course is cleared away, he and Diarmuid bid all and sundry a good eve, explaining that they are tired from their travels, and his voice is about done out. In truth, Diarmuid's eyes are bright with wine, and he's not much better. It is good to get out of public before one of them forgets.

They climb the winding stairs, and then, at last, at last, _at last_ he and Diarmuid are alone in his chamber, door latched. A servant has left a good heaping of coals in the brazier to ward off the evening chill, and a small tallow candle burns on the table to give them light. Some would sneer at tallow and not beeswax, but they're both used to no more than a fire pit or a rushlight, if that, and he's grateful for so much light right now.

A truckle bed has been set up for Diarmuid. "We'll have to remember to rumple that, come morning," Diarmuid remarks. Then a mischievous glint enters his eyes. "Or we could start there …"

He wastes little time in stripping off his clothes, Diarmuid tisking at him as he drops them on the floor. "Wrinkles! At least set them on the chair."

He laughs and complies. It seems Diarmuid is taking to all of a squire's duties.

And then they are on the low bed, skin to skin, straw mattress crackling beneath them, Diarmuid's mouth -- tasting of wine, spices, and roast pork with apples -- is finally on his, the way he has longed for these past months.

He only has to cup his hand around Diarmuid's hot and seeping cock for him to stiffen, shoot, and groan in consternation. Tenderly he brushes the curls away and kisses Diarmuid's forehead. "The first time is always too soon," he whispers gently, soothingly.

The second time starts with kissing and hands exploring and ends with Diarmuid's legs curled around him as together they rut against each other on their way towards completion.

The final time before they head for the master bed, they take each other in hand as they kiss, long, slow, wet, and deep, and stroke each other, leading each other close to the edge several times before they finally fall over.

He rises on shaky legs, pours clean water in the basin, and returns with a damp towel. Diarmuid yelps at the cold, and his own laugh is cut short a moment later when Diarmuid swipes at him with the chilly cloth.

He takes Diarmuid into his arms, feeling like a bridegroom on his wedding night and carries him to the bed. Diarmuid's breath hitches at the cold sheets, and instantly he snuggles into him, hungry for warmth as much as the pleasure of holding one's beloved close. "How I wanted this all those nights, _a chuisle_ ," he whispers as drowsiness overtakes him. "I never dreamed I could feel so perfect, so content. They are fools who think this evil."

He kisses his beloved's sweat damp tangle of curls and whispers, "God gave you to me." Drawing in another breath, he says, with every ounce of conviction he can muster, "God gave you to me, _a chuisle_ , and I am never letting you go, so long as I draw breath."


End file.
